I didn't want to go there:
How I came to have an ileostomy without ever having any bowel problems:
It all started at work early one morning when I had a pain in my chest, so I asked a buddy for some Tums. The pain was getting worse, so I went to the camera darkroom and closed the door, just a dim red light burning. I sat in a chair holding my head; I could feel the sweat dripping on my shoes. That's when I figured it was time to get the hell out of there, so I hopped in the car and headed home. One look from my wife and we were on our way to the hospital.
From then on, things really started moving fast: cardiogram, orders given to prepare some sort of IV injection, and by this time, all my family gathered around. At the foot of the bed was the doc and my younger retired engineer brother. Anyway, as the nurse was pumping this stuff into my vein, I saw my brother elbow the doctor and point to the monitor. The doc yelled, "Stop, stop." Of course, I just had to twist my neck and have a look. Damn, it was scary enough to give a guy a heart attack. What am I saying? I'm already having one. After a while, the numbers started to climb. More IV, stop, numbers start to climb again until they finally emptied the syringe. Things settled down for a few minutes until the doc asked if I ever had an aneurysm. When I told him yes, he wanted to know where. I had to tell him I didn't know, so he called my family doctor and came back and said I had no aneurysm. Now I knew I did because I gave my doctor a copy of a CAT scan my lawyer got for me, and I watched him read it, at least the first page, but the aneurysm part was on page two.
So the doc says he would try to find someone to take me to the CAT scan room. But my brothers would have none of that; they grabbed that gurney and we went flying down the halls with the poor doc trying to keep up. When we got there, they even put me on the machine. CAT scan done, back to emergency. A short while later, the report came back, so my brother asked, "How big?" The doc said, "Quite large." That's when my brother said, "I like numbers, like how big is big?" and he was going to get an answer, no ifs, ands, or buts. Finally, the doc said, "6.5 cm." Holy shit. From the frying pan into the fire. After ten days in ICU, they let me out to see a specialist for the aneurysm, and he told me I would have to wait a year for an operation because of the heart attack. One year, scared shitless, walking on pins and needles, and finally the day came. I had the operation and had another heart attack either during or after the op. Anyway, I had a speedy recovery, or so I thought, because about three months later, I got sick, and I mean sick, about three in the morning, so my family got me to the hospital really fast. It did not take them long to realize I had to get to the city, 150 miles away, and the helicopter was grounded because of fog, but I doubt if he could have beaten that ambulance. I don't remember getting there. The first op, where the surgeon couldn't find anything wrong, two days later, another surgeon operated again and found my colon was dead from the inside. Snip, snip, cut, cut, and ten days later, I sort of came to, so the doc asked my brothers to get in there and keep me awake so they could remove that damn pipe from my throat, and a fine job they did. Like, "Wake up, you long-nosed lazy bastard," you know, the sort of brotherly affection we're used to. So, out comes the pipe. I need water, which they rationed, as I got my speech back. Finally, as my family left the room, one of them hung back and said, "Ed, we had to let them do a colostomy on you." I think I screamed, "What the hell did you let them do that for?" His answer: "What the hell were we supposed to do, let you die?" Good point; couldn't argue with that. Up to this point, I had not seen the pouch, and I was drugged up most of the time. I really came to on Easter Sunday when my surgeon came in, and I said to him, "Resurrection Day, and I'm still in bed." And that is the best place for you right now. Finally, I was moved to a ward with three other ostomates who went out of their way to help me out, and an ostomy nurse came in to teach me the ropes as they applied to my in-hospital stay. You all know what I mean.
One day, they had me sitting up in a chair by the door, and I could hear my name being mentioned. A couple of docs were asking who did the aneurysm. I caught the name, and one of them said, "Holy F%$&^'' and the conversation ended. I got to learn what that meant. But my surgeon knew I had heard and never mentioned it. Later, I did some research on the man, and I was lucky to make it through alive.
So I arrived home, and things were going well until I got ill again, back to the hospital. My stomach hurt so much, and the vomiting, and the morphine, more hallucinations, and finally one of the local surgeons said, "Ed, I'm going to fix this for you." I was not going to argue at that point. He opened me up and did whatever surgeons do, but by damn, I never had that problem again.
Whenever I see this doc, I call him Smart Ass, and he always has a good comeback. Whenever I see him, I go out of my way to thank him.
So after four ops and an ileostomy and a lot of minor glitches, comparatively speaking, I have managed to forget the docs who screwed up. Hate is a useless emotion anyway. OK, so now I have vented; all I have to figure out is how to get this from Word to the forum. Luck to all.